Mar 23, 2009

the flesh covers the boneand they put a mindin there andsometimes a soul,and the women breakvases against the wallsand the men drink toomuchand nobody finds theonebut keeplookingcrawling in and outof beds.flesh coversthe bone and theflesh searchesfor more thanflesh.

Bukowski, like many writers, had his ups and downs. He was first published in the 1940s. Soon after, he gave up writing and joined the work force and bars. Myth says he didn't write or publish anything for nearly 20 years. READ MORE

Traditional - follows standard rules of grammar and syntax with a regular rhythm and rhyme scheme.

Modern - avoids rhyme and standard grammatical organization and seeks new ways of expression.

One Rule!

Read a poem several times. That way you can "hear" the piece and feel its emotion.

The poetry here on WANDERER'S NOOK is mainly the "modern" form of poetry.

I consider myself a modern writer of poetry.

I refuse toreally call myself a "Poet" because I haven't matured enough in writing in order to have the honor to sit at a desk next to Billy Collins, Margaret Atwood, Rita Dove, etc. So, I tap, tap, tap on, at this key board until the Poet in me breaths life.

Mar 5, 2009

And I start wondering how they come to be blind.If it was congenital, they would be brothers and sister,and I think of the poor motherbrooding over her sightless young triplets.

Or was it a common accident, all three caughtin a searing explosion, a firework perhaps?

If not,if each came to his or her blindness separately,

how did thy ever manage to find one another?Would it not be difficult for a blind mouseto locate even one fellow mouse with visionlet alone two other blind ones?

And how, in their tiny darkness,could they possibly have run after a farmer's wifeor anyone else's wife for that matter?Not to mention why.

Just so she could cut off their tailswith a carving knife, is the cynic's answer,but the thought of them without eyesand now without tails to trail through the moist grass

or slip around the corner of a baseboardhas the cynic who always lounges within meup off his couch and at the windowtrying to hide the rising softness that he feels.

By now I am on to dicing an onionwhich might account for the wet stingingin my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard'smournful trumpet on "Blue Moon,"

which happens to be the next cut,cannot be said to be making matters any better.

[Personal Note: I absolutely ADORE this poet. I had the pleasure of seeing Billy read this poem in person up at Kent State. It was then I fell in love with his poetry. It was then I fell in love with poetry period.]

Mar 4, 2009

Out of lemon flowersloosedon the moonlight, love'slashed and insatiableessences,sodden with fragrance,the lemon tree's yellowemerges,the lemonsmove downfrom the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!The harbors are big with it-bazaarsfor the light and thebarbarous gold.We openthe halvesof a miracle,and a clotting of acidsbrimsinto the starrydivisions:creation'soriginal juices,irreducible, changeless,alive:so the freshness lives onin a lemon,in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemonthe knifeleaves a little cathedral:alcoves unguessed by the eyethat open acidulous glassto the light; topazesriding the droplets,altars,aromatic facades.

So, while the handholds the cut of the lemon,half a worldon a trencher,the gold of the universewellsto your touch:a cup yellowwith miracles,a breast and a nippleperfuming the earth;a flashing made fruitage,the diminutive fire of a planet.

Pablo Neruda

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) born in Chile. His real name was Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. His poems have been translated into English. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1971. You can tell Mr. Neruda was a lover. His poems are of love, love, love. Read More

Mar 2, 2009

I want to die while you love me,While yet you hold me fair,While Laughter lies upon my lipsAnd lights are in my hair.I want to die while you love meAnd bear to that still bedYour kisses turbulent, unspentTo warm me when I’m dead.

I want to die while you love me;Oh, who would care to liveTill love has nothing more to askAnd nothing more to give?

I want to die while you love me,And never, never seeThe glory of this perfect dayGrow dim, or cease to be!

Mrs. Johnson was one of the many little known poets, meaning her name was not as well known as Langston Hughes, Jean Toomer and the like. She was well known with her peers. Although she wrote many poems, plays and newspaper articles I believe she wasn't give the acclaim to the likes of the fore mentioned writers.

Who or What Am I?

A Baby Boomer by birth, with lots to say. Political views voiced can go either way, not a die-hard political follower but, when something irks me...gloves are off.
I'm neither Democrat nor Republican, both sides tend to irritate me.When I vote, I vote for the lesser of the two evils or I'll vote for my self.
As a Disabled Veteran I've traveled the world, now I'm traveling along cyberspace and blog what I say and say what I blog -- simple as that.
Come and converse with me -- you know you want too!
I blog what I say and say what I blog -- simple as that
All rights reserved with anything written by me.